


The Best Part of Waking Up

by dollylux



Series: Fic Advent Calendar 2014: Brothers, Soulmates, and Other Such Sexiness [21]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Christmas, College Student Dean, Cooking, Fluff and Crack, Folgers Commercial Fic, Kinda Like Songfic, M/M, Only With More Incest, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2815589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Folgers Christmas commercial, AU Wincest-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Part of Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> Day twenty of my fic advent challenge. Prompt: cooking.
> 
> Based on the commercial of my people, aka the infamous, super incestuous [Folgers Coffee commercial that we all know and love.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zZnqBL6iYjA)

Most days, New York City feels like it’s on another planet.

Or in another galaxy. Outside of the known universe. It feels as far away as anything ever could, completely impossible to reach instead of just being 1,228.7 miles away from Lawrence, Kansas. You know. Roughly.

New York City is the place that has Dean, or at least where Dean has been living since August. He’d enrolled in NYU and gotten swallowed up by that impossibly dense city, hadn’t even come home at Thanksgiving.

 _He’s having Thanksgiving with some new friends at a cabin in Connecticut_ , Mom had said, a little sad but mostly happy that Dean seemed to be doing so well, that he was fitting in and loving college so much.

Sam had been miserable.

His big brother (not to mention boyfriend, whether unofficial or not) had been gone for the first holiday that Sam could remember, and it would be another month before he got to see him again.

But that doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter. Because now it’s _here_ , Christmas is here, and it’s cold enough outside that it’s even snowing a little, pretty, lazy flakes falling from the sky and settling on everything dreamily, like the entire earth is so excited that Dean’s coming home, that he should be here _any minute_ , that it can’t help but show its happiness through Christmas morning snow.

Sam’s toes twist inside of his socks as he stands in front of the window, the whole rest of the house asleep at this hour, Dad’s snoring audible even down here in the livingroom. Sam ignores it, ignores everything but his focus on the street, fingers digging into the windowsill as he tries to will Dean to him.

Like that’s worked every time he’s tried it the whole four months Dean’s been gone.

He can’t stop the thoughts that flit through his head, the ones that say _maybe he’s got a girlfriend now, maybe he realizes now how weird what they’ve been doing is, how they feel about each other is wrong and he’s done with it, done with you. Maybe things are just going to be_ normal _now, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it._

He’s worked himself into a quiet panic, his whole body so jittery, so on edge that he nearly falls over in his rush to _move_ when he sees a yellow cab pull up in front of the house.

His socked feet skid over the hardwood, hands reaching out to grab anything that will steady him while he flings himself to the front door and flings it open, letting in a sharp burst of frigid air and an unfiltered, high-definition view of Dean pulling Dad’s old duffel bag up onto his shoulder and taking a step up onto the porch.

Their eyes meet.

“Dean,” Sam whispers mostly to himself, mostly just a gasp, a soft sound that sound absolutely pitiful. Dean just stops, standing there on the second to last step while the taxi pulls away, leaving them in a true, waiting quiet. Dean finally tears his eyes away and glances up at the house numbers beside the door, his expression a little more playful, a little less stunned than it had been.

“I’ve got the wrong house, right? Because my little Sammy is actually _small._ You’re, like, a foot taller than he was.”

“It’s me,” Sam breathes, just staring at Dean while his knees shake, while his hands stay so empty. “It’s me, your Sammy. Your little brother.”

“My little brother,” Dean echoes, his voice low, eyes narrowing as he takes the last step and heads right for Sam, his body so long, so lean and familiar-looking even under the new jacket, with the slightly longer hair and the circles under Dean’s eyes. He steps right up to Sam and into him, the hand not holding onto the bag sliding around Sam’s waist, pulling him in snug as he simply licks into Sam’s mouth, kissing him they’re in the middle of sex instead of like they haven’t seen each other, haven’t touched for months and months.

Sam wavers then, knees buckling a little but Dean keeps his hold on him, keeps Sam standing while he sucks Sam’s bottom lip fat, the whole of him smelling new, different, unfamiliar scents but he tastes the same, tastes like stolen nights in tents in the backyard and toothpaste kisses in the bathroom and I-missed-you kisses after school in Sam’s room.

“Waited up for you all night,” he whispers against Dean’s lips, arms sliding up around his neck to hold onto him while Dean walks them back into the house, into the warmth of their haven, both of them being as quiet as they’ve learned how over the years, Mom and Dad asleep upstairs. “Missed you so much.”

“God, it’s been such a long couple of weeks. Finals’ve been hell and I haven’t slept at all, haven’t eaten a good hot meal, haven’t slept in a bed, my bed--”

“Our bed,” Sam corrects, fingers pushing up into Dean’s hair as they kiss between words. Dean moans, small and pleased, both for the words and the touch.

“--Our bed. Yeah, babe. _Our_ bed.” Dean drops his bag and turns them so that he’s sinking down on the couch, pulling Sam down with him, Sam crowding up in his lap, snuggled up in it, both his hands massaging Dean’s scalp while he worships Dean’s bottom lip.

He crams his hand down between them, sliding up between Dean’s legs to rub at his dick there, kneading at the already solid length of him through warm denim and Dean’s breath shudders, his eyes falling closed, mouth falling slack.

“Sammy,” he manages, hips trying to shove up with Sam’s weight still on him. Sam slides off his lap and curls up beside him on the couch, belly against the soft cushions, face down close between Dean’s parted thighs.

“Dean, can I suck you? Can I please suck you?” He’s already prying at Dean’s jeans, popping the button and tugging down the zipper, reaching inside to push his briefs down to get at the burning hot thick of Dean’s delicious cock.

Dean can’t seem to respond, just keeps licking his slightly cold-chapped lips over and over again, making the red skin there an even deeper shade while he gets a hand into Sam’s hair, just resting there, holding onto him while Sam works.

So Sam does just that.

Being quiet is a no brainer, listening hard goes without being said. This isn’t new, this isn’t the first time, this is not a game of trying to get caught. This is who they are, and this is what they’ve done, what they’ve grown into knowing how to do together. There’s no room for guilt anymore, for hesitations. There’s just this: this love so big that it obliterates all others, that it is unknowable to every single other person in the world. And that suits them both just fine.

Dean is almost completely hard by the time Sam gets him pulled out, by the time he gets a grip at the base of him and kisses the honey-slick shuddering out of Dean’s slit. Sam doesn’t tease, doesn’t play at being a Lolita, or give Dean those knowing eyes like girls do in porn. He just closes his eyes, nuzzles at Dean’s cock, rubs it against his cheek in a moment of tender, sheepish adoration, of love for every single inch of Dean’s body, in thanks for getting to be right here, where he wants to be.

He swallows him down, takes Dean right across his tongue and down toward the back of his mouth, lips over his teeth, cheeks sucked in with a gentle pressure, his throat empty and tensed in anticipation. Dean sinks right down into it, edges down into Sam’s throat with a slow plunge that has Sam shoving his hips against the couch, grinding while he holds him there, cradles his dick in the fluttering trap of his throat before Dean pulls out again, only just barely holding in a shaking groan.

Sam arches under Dean’s hand that travels down the line of his spine and into the back of his pajama pants, spit-slick fingers rubbing hard at his twitching asshole, massaging it while Sam bobs on Dean’s cock, his lashes fluttering blissfully. He sucks Dean’s dick like a fucking champ and he knows it, handles him like a professional, knows exactly how much pressure to use and when, exactly the rhythm and speed Dean likes it, what sounds he makes when he wants it faster or harder, knows when Dean starts blurting slick over his tongue that he’s getting closer, that he needs more, that he needs Sam’s hands rubbing his balls, to coax the come out of him.

He knows Dean’s body just as much as Dean knows his.

Dean pushes a mostly-dry forefinger right up into Sam’s woefully-unused hole, drawing a punched-out gasp from Sam and a moan that has Dean shivering, fucking his hips up toward Sam’s face in careful, shallow lifts.

It’s like Dean never left.

Dean’s hand tightens in his hair, that finger inside of him shoved in, locked there like it’s Dean’s cock, and his whole body tenses while he thrusts a little harder at Sam’s mouth, slamming a few times right back into his throat before he’s got the crown right up against the inside of Sam’s lips and he’s unloading over the flat soft of his tongue, come flooding Sam’s mouth and sliding in thick wads down Sam’s throat.

Dean’s practically curled down around him now, his forehead pressed between Sam’s shoulder blades at an awkward angle, breath rushing hot and secret into the worn cotton of Sam’s baseball tee, a hand-me-down of Dean’s from high school. Sam keeps him in his mouth, just holds him there and suckles. The intimacy of this, the closeness and tangle of their bodies is unbelievably arousing, overwhelming in how _necessary_ it is for both of them to be exactly this close.

Dean wedges a second finger inside of Sam’s ass and fucks him with them, just a little slick with spit and insistent, rubbing knowingly at Sam’s prostate. Sam lifts his ass as much as he’ll let himself, his painfully hard dick rubbing desperately against the couch while he mouths at Dean’s softening cock.

“Get up here and come in my mouth, Sammy,” Dean whispers against his back, giving a particularly hard thrust that has Sam trembling hard, so, so close. He nods, pulling back, his throat feeling massive and raw, his mouth used and fat and red, and he’s got fucked-out tears in his eyes when he lifts up and yanks his pants down, standing now on the floor next to the couch while Dean curls down just enough to get his mouth around the head of Sam’s dick, wrapping those beautiful lips around him and tonguing the slit, big green eyes trained on Sam’s face, in love and hunger.

Sam doesn’t last two more seconds.

He shoots straight into Dean’s mouth in frantic, relieved gushes, both his lips caught in his mouth as he jacks his dick, staring obsessively at the way Dean’s drinking him down, sucking so sweetly on his tip, lashes dark and lowering as he eases Sam down.

They break away finally, staring into each other’s eyes as they fix their pants back up, and Dean stands up and gathers Sam to him again, their mouths melting together and tasting like each other’s dicks, like the earthy-salt of come, the taste of both, especially together, comforting in its familiarity. 

“Love you, Sammy,” Dean smiles against his mouth, pressing one final kiss there before he stands up straight. Sam grins at him, dopey and so stupidly in love, his cheeks flushing somehow, even after all that.

“Why don’t you start a pot of coffee? I’m gonna make you breakfast.” Sam tangles his fingers loosely with Dean’s and tugs him toward the kitchen, his hips loose, his whole body relaxed now. Dean kisses his shoulder before he continues past Sam and over to the cabinet where he reaches up and snags the cannister of Folgers down from the top shelf.

Sam grabs the eggs, milk, butter, and bacon from the fridge, shutting it behind him with his hip. He gets a skillet on the stove, butter melting in it while he mixes eggs with the milk. He lays a few strips of bacon on one side and pours the eggs in on the other, the whole kitchen quiet with their routine, with how easy it is to be together and do absolutely anything. The smell of coffee and bacon fills the room, and Sam knows it won’t be long before Mom and Dad come downstairs.

Dean pours himself a cup of coffee and hops up to sit on the counter after stripping his coat off, leaving him in henley and a t-shirt. Sam can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he sits beside him on the counter, sipping his coffee, and Sam knows without question that this is what their future will be like someday, when they’re on their own and together and disgustingly, beautifully domestic.

He can’t wait.

“Don’t you want to know what I brought you?”

“Hmm?” Sam looks over then, long hair shaggy and in his eyes. Dean’s holding a little box that Sam hadn’t even seen him with, all wrapped up pretty with a stick-on red bow on top. His dimples wink dangerously as he looks up at Dean through his lashes. "What's this?"

“It’s your Christmas present. C’mon, don’t you wanna open it?” 

Dean smiles as Sam takes it, lowers his gaze to it and looks it over before turning his attention back to Dean. There’s movement upstairs now, the soft whine and creak of the floor as Mom and Dad get up. They only have minutes now, maybe seconds, to be alone.

Sam tugs the bow free from the little box, reaching up and pressing the bow to Dean’s chest, the sticker holding it in place, making it stay. Dean looks down at it before raising his eyebrows up at Sam, a question in his smile. Sam puts the present down and steps up between Dean’s legs, staring up into his eyes.

“You’re what I want for Christmas, Dean.”

Something like pain flashes into Dean’s eyes, but Sam recognizes it for what it is: profound, desperate love that only two people in the whole world know exists. Dean kisses him, just leans forward and presses their mouths together as the sounds upstairs get louder, footsteps now, heading for the stairs. They break away, foreheads resting together in these last few seconds, savoring.

“You’ve got me forever, Sammy.”


End file.
